Streets of Death
by gpakevin
Summary: Frank Castle, a Vietnam veteran now AWOL who returned from the war only to watch his wife and children die, has been fighting crime as a vigilante and punishing killers for thirty years. The war has never been more personal.
1. Prologue

STREETS OF DEATH

by KEVIN LOVE

The grim conflicts of the past have haunted dozens of soldiers. Young and old, still enlisted and long retired, American and foreign, all see the ghosts of those they have confronted. Men stand in opposition to one another without any personal grievances, brandishing the most powerful and most feared weapons of their times. In the trenches of Europe, soldiers from the whole gamut of nations hid while their new friends, aligned only by those they carried guns against, were shot down and left to die in the stark sadness of no man's land. On the shores of Normandy, the Germans battered American, English, and Canadian forces as they swarmed the beaches against the furher.

These battles, while great and ominous for their time, held nothing against the fearsome combat that was to be seen during America's conflict in Vietnam. John Kennedy began by sending advisors to the small nation within southeast Asia. Kennedy was known for his willingness to battle the communists, while the Soviet Union was known to support many satellite nations' bids to free their non-communist neighbors from what they saw as the oppression of market forces that only held failure and loss for the common man. By the time the conflict ended, almost sixty-thousand Americans and one-million residents of Vietnam had died. The deaths came in the thick fog of the jungle, and were dealt by both small arms, artillery, and air attacks. Many still remember the look and smell of napalm as it was dropped miles away to deal with nearly invisible fringe forces.

Most soldiers considered themselves extremely lucky to be free of the conflict once they had served their tours of duty. One such combatant was Frank Castle, a Captain in the Marines who had served three tours; one as infantry, one as a black-ops unit, and the final as an officer at a base camp. When that base-camp was over-run by hundreds of angry VCs, he was the sole survivor. As best as he recalls, he was offered the chance by something dark within himself to survive at the expense of his humanity. While this entity may have been real or imagined, the very core of his humanity was struck within a year: his wife and two children were killed by mobsters in Central Park during a picnic, gunned down by a Thompson .45 sub-machinegun.

The power struggle within a criminal organization resulted in the creation of a man who had lost everything and was furious with the world. Castle had the weapons training and black-ops specializations necessary to wage war as his own combat unit, and the mafia had provided him with a target that he couldn't pass for all the money in the world. In an attempt to silence Castle about his family's murders, hitman Billy Russo attempted to bomb the Castle family home with Frank inside. Unluckily for Russo, Frank escaped and survived. After throwing Russo through a second story window, Castle had ensured Russo a brutally scarred and ruined face, for which he would be known as Jigsaw forever on.

Frank continued his rampage; he didn't even start with the criminals that killed his family. No, for he and his family and neighbors in New York during the 1960s had faced the oppression of the Mafia before. He took the first opportunity he had to kill a group of capos and their consiglieris all at once. One cold night in December, through the bright snow and the joy that the holidays had recently brought so many others, he brandished a scoped rifle high on a rooftop over a busy city street and began unleashing his power on organized crime. There were no survivors, and people began to talk: was it a mob hit, or a vigilante killing? When the evidence had been pieced together, the police reached a conclusion: Frank Castle was missing, and a rifle he had purchased was involved in the vigilante murders of ten men all in a single night. Castle would be known as "The Punisher" from that time onwards. More of a title than a nickname, the unstoppable Punisher struck fear in to the hearts of evildoers with his fatal methods and fierce legend.

For years, he took on the killers and thieves that law enforcement was slow to stop, or failed to pursue entirely. He has also confronted Jigsaw on several additional occasions; the two seek to absolve themselves of the pains that the other inflicted upon them, but the stalemate has not been conclusively broken. Russo himself recently escaped imprisonment and is presumed to be in hiding.


	2. Chapter 1

Castle stood in the middle of the street. Looking to the carnage around him, he wasn't quite sure how he had gotten there; destroyed cars, piles of bodies, but no sirens. A flash; two gunshots rang out. Castle looked down at his chest. Two fresh bullet holes where hot and heavy rounds had penetrated his armor. He remembered; the porn store owner had seen him, and it brought Gnucci soldiers to his door step. Wasn't that awhile ago? Ma Gnucci has been dead for years. A shadowy figure with a revolver stepped out from the shadows; the gun was silver with a black handle, a very heavy caliber. It was still smoking.

"You'll never kill me, Castle. You'll be dead before you can find me." Castle recognized the voice. A grin flashed in to his mind. He hadn't seen that grin since before he had assaulted Russo at the nightclub years ago. A scarred face emerged from the dark. Castle lifted his 45; he pulled the trigger. Nothing. He pulled it again; the slide fell off the pistol, and the clip dropped to the ground. He tried to catch it, but he wasn't fast enough to beat the laughter or the gunshot. Jigsaw laughed wildly as he pulled the trigger four more times. Castle fell back to the pavement.

Beeping; a garbage truck outside. Castle sat up with a start. He'd fallen asleep at his work bench. A sawed off shotgun had been in order; the last one had jammed on him, the result of being forced to use whatever weapons were available to procure. He checked his work from the evening before, and decided the shotgun had been adequately modified.

"Punisher War Journal, mark IV. March 1st. It's been a long time since I was in the military and fighting in the 'Nam. I'll never be able to cleanse myself of the things I saw there, but I am realizing that the contemporary battle in the states is much different. There are so many innocents; in 'Nam, we weren't instructed to even think about innocent life. Since returning to my roots as a civilian, I've had a change of heart from that training. The marines made me an efficient killing machine with combat training that will never leave my reflexes. What I fall victim to, at times, though... it's easy to forget the reason that I punish the guilty; it's for them, my wife, and my children. I need to protect others like them before harm comes to them... not after it's already too late. The guilty must pay. It is my duty to destroy them."


	3. Chapter 2

The doe grazed in a grassy clearing. She was healthy and intelligent, and as such was perfectly suited for the languageless world of the great outdoors. She strolled calmly around under the orange, cloudy sky. The wind had picked up, and it was still very chilly outside. She shivered as she pushed towards the woods. She picked up her pace for a moment, eager to get back to the safety and comfort of the heavily tree-laden sanctuary that was home.

Her simple brain didn't allow her to enjoy the beauties around her for any reason other than familiarity, but the woods provided a gorgeous backdrop to any human observer. However, in this upstate area of New York, it would be dangerous at night for most people. Hunters only searched for prey during the day, and certainly not in the freezing winter.

A robust branch sounded like a gunshot as it cracked above the doe; she attempted to flee, but was crushed before she could save herself. Foot steps approached from a previously hidden position. The man creating them stood tall and almost handsome, if it weren't for the multiple grizzly looking scars on his face. He was in his late forties, but the plastic surgery he had been addicted to in years past had finally left him with the visage of a young man. He smiled as he bent over and looked in to the confused deer's eyes. Tears of pain and a moan of agony formed from her body. The man mercifully slit her throat with a bowie knife, and she quickly escaped the horror she faced in her final moments.

The man was still learning, but he was already at a stage of moderate skill; he bagged and tied the deer. His muscles were much larger than they used to be, and he was no longer the lean and light boy he remembered from his days of gang violence. He pulled the deer through the woods, and the strong sack he had purchased in town was doing its part to ensure he'd still have his prize when he returned home. As he pulled the doe along the dirt road to the small house he was renting under the name of John Mirra, he passed by the objects he was using to train himself to peak efficiency. Straw dummies stood broken, bits of them blowing across the woods by this point. Targets with circular scoring zones were filled with holes, while others were clean and ready to be fired upon with the various short-range arms that the man was re-connecting with on a regular basis.

Long range weapons were of an interest to him as well. The house sat above a several acre field, and the upstairs window served as a suitable perch for a scoped weapon. The cans and bottles crushed and smashed in the grass suggested the effort had been made countless times to master a sniper weapon's aim, and the man had acquired some skill. The man dragged the deer inside of the house, and looked at the walls. Images of Frank Castle from newspapers, surveillance photos, and even a TV with old news footage of Castle murdering a corrupt cop named Blackwell played. He said to himself, "Some people might say you're obsessed. You're a real piece of work.. Jiggy."


	4. Chapter 3

The convenience store was crowded; lunch time rush. Office staffers scrambled to grab a sandwich or soda before dashing back to work. The cold outside air randomly stung the employees as the door opened again, and Frank Castle entered, letting the door close behind him as he rubbed his hands together. He began to peruse the magazine stand. He stared blankly at the news rags with a quizzical look on his face before moving to the deli shelves and picking up a sandwich. The label read, "Made Fresh!" The date on the cold BLT was February 28th. _Made fresh yesterday_, Frank thought to himself as he got in line.

"No, that's not right," a man loudly bellowed at the front of the line, dressed sharply in a suit and tie. "Two hot dogs for two dollars... that's what the sign says."

"Forgive him, sir," an Indian woman behind the counter asked, "he's a new employee."

"Too bad he's not a former employee. May I have my food?" The man took his hotdogs in their boxes, and headed in to the street. Frank paid for his food and followed in the man's footsteps, only to find him standing in front of an unshaven man wearing a dirty trenchcoat. "You want money? Christ, to do what with... pay your cell phone bill?"

"I don't have a..."

"The hell you don't! Tell you what, would you take a hot dog? I've got two! No? Didn't think so." He began to walk off. Castle grabbed him by the arm roughly and pulled him back. "What the hell do you..."

"Give him a hotdog."

"What?"

"You didn't give him a chance to answer... but you offered. Give him the hotdog."

"He's a fuckin' junky," the man yelled, "and I ain't paying for it."

"I'm really hungry, mister," the homeless man said. With a look of fierce bewilderment in his eyes, the man didn't protest as Frank took one of the hotdog boxes and handed it to the homeless man. The well dressed man then quickly walked away. "Thank you, sir."

"Nothing. It's nothing," Frank told him. The well dressed man began to approach a police car, and was met with a cop's listening ear. He pointed at Frank, and the well dressed man nodded as Frank saw him mouth the word 'hotdog.' The policeman pulled his car around to where Frank was standing, and flicked the siren a few times as Castle strode away. As the officer stood staring, Frank took the steps down to the subway.

"Punisher War Journal, mark IV. March 1st, continued. Nothing's changed in thirty years of waiting. I'm not up with current events, nor do I care to be as they're largely irrelevant... but nothing's changed with the priveleged since the dawn of time. If you're not expedient, they'll turn to the authorities who will be. The streets will kill you, one way or another, unless you've got cold hard cash. Money means guns and butter... and I don't know which I despise more."


	5. Chapter 4

Walton Slade, bail bondsman, sat waiting for business in the front of his office. "Don't get many calls these days," Slade laughed to himself, "but business always picks up." He glanced back at his newspaper, illuminated only by a cheap desk lamp in the otherwise dim room, and brushed his slimy black hair out of his face. A noise; Slade looked up. His mouth hung open for a minute as he squinted his eyes in the dark. He grumbled and turned to his computer monitor, which lit up as he moved the mouse. "Damn C drive."

A gloved hand enforced by muscular arms yanked him out of his chair, knocking it to the floor; Slade lost his balance and was flung against the wall. Peripherally, he saw his attacker, a large man in black. He threw a punch in vain, and was quickly knocked prone to the floor, and up against the wall once more. Slade reached for his pistol, strapped under his left arm; his right hand was immediately stamped to the floor, and he took a straight kick to the face, bouncing his head off the wall. He laid still for a moment, dazed, just before his head was lifted up and a sawed-off shotgun applied painful pressure to his nose. The pain encouraged him to yell as tears began to run from his eyes. The gun was then pointed at his head.

"I never was a fan of private contractors." Slade could barely understand, between the fear and the pain. "You hold yourself up as an enforcer of the law, an aid to society, only to use that license of yours to extort money from escaped defendants. You know where they belong, and despite the reward waiting for you, you offer a deal for more cash in exchange for their freedom."

"No... no, I wouldn't..."

"Such lies are painful..." Slade's attacker bent over with his foot still on Slade's hand, and bent the bondsman's ring finger back until there was a snap and a horrible yelp. "...but the truth hurts more." The man with the giant skull on his chest, the Punisher, stepped back but held his weapon's aim as Slade groaned. "Quit the business... leave it to the honest ones. You know what the punishment will be."

"Why me?"

Castle hauled Slade to his feet. "Because you're vicious scum, and it brings me pleasure to set you straight." Castle threw Slade across the desk, slamming it to the ground with a bang along with the computer monitor, a telephone, and countless magazines and newspapers. Lying on the floor with blood trickling from his head, Slade tried to tilt his head up before falling unconcious.

Frank wasn't done yet though. Quickly unscrewing the back of the now unplugged computer, he yanked the cover off before hurling the PC across the room. Impacting the wall, parts fell out of the machine and broke in to pieces along the floor. In the wreckage of the short flight, Frank located the hard drive. He pointed his sawed-off at the device and fired. Sparks flew as the shot fractured the device. Frank picked up what remained of the drive, and as he walked out, tossed it next to Slade.


	6. Chapter 5

The lean yet muscular biker spit in to the air. Flying past a car on his motorcycle, the wad of spit splattered on the sedan's windshield. The car honked several times. The biker yelled to his companions. "You'd think he's the first guy ever to get my spittle on his windshield!" They laughed as they ignored the angry honks. Soon, angry honks turned to close-riding on the biker's bumper. "Damn, I love riding," he quietly said to himself.

Pulling left and tapping the brakes, he dropped along side the car. The driver rolled down his window. "Who the fuck do you think you..." Too late. The biker's fist was expertly arced through the open window with a backhand, straight to the driver's nose. The car's tires screeched as the driver pulled to the side of the road. The biker admired the blood on his hand. Meanwhile, one of his cohorts was happily provoking a truck driver up ahead. The biker signalled to his friend, who had goaded the driver in to an argument.

When the biker's leader pulled up along side the truck driver, the insults hadn't stopped. "You're just scum, you know that? All you guys are scum." Just as he finished, the biker spit in his mouth. The truck driver slowed down for a moment, but after spitting and coughing himself, was ready to chase down the group. Just as he bore down upon them, the whole group quickly hit their brakes and pulled behind him. Seeing each one lift a firearm out of their saddlebags, he knew it was time to leave.

His truck wasn't fast enough, however. The gang unloaded on the vehicle, piercing the back window several times and filling the man with bullets. The truck stopped in the middle of the road. The head biker stopped several yards ahead while his men dragged the man out of his vehicle. "Some people just don't know when to quit," shouted one of the bikers.

"Kill the son of a bitch." The beating began, and it didn't matter whether he was alive or dead.

"Yeah. Kill him."

The gang heard a car stop behind them. They all turned, not sure what to expect. A stern looking man examined them for a moment before boldly stepping out of the dark sedan, approaching the now still and silent group. He knelt down next to the injured man and felt his neck.

"No pulse."

The bikers were confused. "Don't you know you're next?" The man wordlessly stood up, and looking to the biker who spoke, he drew a .45 semi-automatic as if it was an extension of his fist and smoothly shot him in the face. Blood flashed through the air before splattering on the ground and disappearing on the dark pavement; the biker tumbled to the ground, convulsing. One of the other bikers lifted his own weapon and prepared to fire, but the stark man was much faster than he'd imagined. The biker had fired a three-round burst in to one of his companions before he removed pressure from the trigger. He turned to re-acquire his target; all he acquired was a bullet to the spine.

As the three downed bikers' friends stood in shock, the stark man turned towards them. They saw the skull on the vest under his coat, and as gun runners, knew their time had come. They took off on their bikes as Castle returned to his own vehicle and peeled towards them, crushing the head of the biker with the shot spine.

As they all sped down the road, one of the bikers slowed; he was going to take the man on. He appeared quite experienced on his bike as he unstrapped his MP5 from over his shoulders, and checked the clip; it was light, and almost empty. He tossed the old clip to the ground which quickly sped away behind him, and locked in a new clip.

The biker turned to fire, but his speed was too low; Castle's car slammed in to his rear wheel from the side, fish-hooking the motorcycle to the left and spinning him in to oncoming traffic. As Castle's car sped towards his other targets, the biker was struck in mid-air by a vehicle, tossed in to the air once more, and landed on his back just in front of a large van. The bottom of the vehicle took off his helmet, and scraped off most of his face, including his nose. Before he bled out, he wished he hadn't left home that day.


	7. Chapter 6

Pulling in to a parking garage and blowing past the attendants, the two bikers pulled to a stop as their motorcycles idled loudly. "Did you see him?!"

"No!"

"Good," the biker's leader said, "but you don't shake a guy like that. Tricky son of a bitch, he's sure to be..."

A shot rang out. The last henchman fell to the ground, a rifle round lodged in his brain. The biker's leader was quick, and pointed his submachine gun towards the sound. He saw a glimpse of Castle darting in to the dark; the leader was stunned. Castle had removed his coat, and all that remained was a shirtless man in a skull emblazoned tactical vest who, despite all his muscle, was lean and wiry. His steel-toed boots were of the variety that in the back of his mind, even the biker himself was jealous of their quality.

"No, no... it was too quick, he's not that scary." The biker shook his head clean of his imagined cobwebs and picked up his dead ally's weapon. He heard a noise near the stairwell, at the opposite end of the garage. He took the first step; it echoed, but he quickly followed it at a rapid pace. He smiled at the echoing perfection of his boots against the pavement. "I've been doing this too long... forgot just how much I loved to kill your breed of self righteous asshole!" No answer.

"You take the moral high ground... only killing those who kill... but what makes you so perfect? You god damned baby killer!" He remembered his Vietnam vet biker buddies hated that phrase so. Still, no answer from the hunter. "Oh, fuck you, hide then. Hide, you goooagch..." The knife slipped through his ribs swiftly as he dropped his weapons to get a grip on the strong arm that held his head still.

"Cute," Castle said, "tried to get inside my head. But here we are." The knife only slid deeper as it came back for a second pass. Blood gushed out of the biker's mouth, running along Castle's fingerless gloves and down the biker's chin.

Castle released the man and kicked him to the ground. He unslung his bolt rifle and after loudly chambering a new bullet, he used one arm to point it at the man's chest. The biker was having some trouble breathing, but he wasn't gone yet.

"It's not... fair... why us?"

Castle grimaced at the question. "Every time you murderers ask me that question, there's only one answer: you had it coming. Vandalism isn't fair. ASSAULT isn't fair. MURDER ISN'T FAIR!" Castle's last three words echoed throughout the garage, and both men stayed silent for a moment. "Society doesn't want your evil, but I'm the only one willing to punish it." He fired the rifle. The biker's body fell limp as his head dropped to the concrete. Slinging the rifle once again, Castle vaulted over the garage wall.

-

"Punisher War Journal, mark IV. March 1st continued. I continue to strike out at those who I can find, the enemies of the people close to the street. The day has been productive; early this morning I caught up with a corrupt bail bondsman who broke the rules of his profitable game with the justice system. I could feel the evil in him shriek and writhe in agony as I reminded him of who has the power. He will either quit while he's ahead, or more likely, turn to more desperate crime for money... and I will take him off at the knees when he tries.

The afternoon's tracking mission of gun runners neccesarily turned in to armed combat when the uncontrollable effects of drugs and alcohol took effect and they began to harass and even maim the innocent. When cornered, their leader attempted a weak morality argument; I am immune to such attacks from his kind, but I am impressed that the enemy hasn't forgotten who I am. I have dug so firmly in to their skin that my very ability to strike at them with near impunity has become unfair in their minds. The mainstream nature of crime in this city will soon come to an end. I will continue to surgically eradicate the disease of violent aggressors in the streets.

For the rest of the night, I've decided on recon and information gathering. The bar that the gun runners frequented is likely a hot spot for drugs and other illegal activity, and as the only soldier fighting this war, I'm putting boots on the ground."


	8. Chapter 7

Castle sat at the corner table in the medium sized bar. There were enough patrons that a gun fight would get nasty, but a confrontation seemed unavoidable since he'd been pointed out in a very vocal way.

"Yeah, I know who the hell you are," the fat, bearded biker shouted at him. "What've you got to say for yourself, huh? I'm gonna slaughter you for what you did to them on the freeway!"

_Fear,_ Castle thought to himself. _The longer you can stay put, the more they'll fear you._ He flashed a sly smile, which quieted the biker and put an expression of disbelief on his face. _Yes, fear is for the enemy... fear and flashbangs._

Castle kicked the disc at his feet towards the biker, and it exploded, blinding everyone near him. Frank didn't wait to follow up. He quickly stood up, approached the large man, and picking up a metal napkin dispenser, struck him in the temple. The biker was out cold.

The crowd cleared from around Castle as he turned to look at them. Solemnly, they all diverted their eyes... except for one man, who Frank immediately glanced at. His short hair was slicked back; the man was in his early forties and had a remarkable build, perhaps even more disciplined than Castle's own. Something about it didn't look real.

"Impressive, sir. Just as I knew you would be," the man said with a latin accent.

"I don't have time for games. Who the hell are you?"

The man stepped closer to Frank, and spoke very quietly. "You ruined a very lucrative trade. Do you know how hard it is for me to find the automatic weapons they were providing? You have stepped in it royally this time, my friend." The man swung his arm at Castle with a chop; it wasn't difficult for Castle to block, but the shot would almost certainly leave a black bruise on his arm. The man spun his body and with a closed fist, swung with the opposite arm. Castle ducked the attack and coming up, tried to deliver an uppercut to the man's face. The man had moved far away enough that Castle's shot had missed completely.

The two stepped back, and circled for a moment. The crowd was getting in to it, their entertainment being provided only at the cost of the alcohol in their bodies. "Sure, play it stupid, Punisher... I dare you to brawl with me." As if the man's swift movement and carefully calculated attacks weren't enough evidence, his words certainly indicated this was a professional. Castle drew the large knife from his back holster and hoped to catch the man off guard, but as he lunged, the man stepped to the side, put his foot behind Castle's own, and efficiently threw him to the ground.

_Is it too late? Did I screw it up already?_ Castle wondered. He had to get back in the fight somehow. He took whatever target he could get, and managed to plant the knife in to the man's thigh... the knife stopped short, however. _Body armor?_

The bar's female owner shouted at the patrons, "Everyone clear out! I called the cops, you've all had enough. Go on, pay your tabs and scram." The patrons all cleared out in a hurry. "Aw, shit, nobody paid. Great."

Meanwhile, the fight continued. Castle absorbed several hard punches to the face before falling dazed to the ground. The man slid the knife from his thigh armor and stowed it behind his own back. Castle lunged for a bar stool and hurled it towards the man. He deftly blocked it with his arm, and catching the stool, flung it towards the bar. The owner ducked out of the way and screamed as glass bottles broke and booze ran freely down the shelves.

"Yes sir, full body armor. I'm sure you've noticed by now." The man could tell he had surprised Castle. "Normally I'm not so forward with threats to the organization, but this is fun!" The man cracked his neck.

"What a cliche," Castle said as he climbed to his feet. He raised his fists and braced as the man approached him. As the man kicked towards his hip, Castle caught his leg; the man attempted to bring up his other leg but was dropped to the floor. Castle pointed his wrist towards the man's face, and pressing on his arm with his other hand, fired his ballistic knife at him. The man raised his own arm, which absorbed most of the blow as the slim knife sliced through his sleeve. "Are you bleeding yet, mongrel?"

The man laughed and climbed to his feet, half in pain and half in surprise as a small spot of blood appeared on his sleeve. "Strong ballistic knife, I have to give you that one. Try mine." The man raised his own arm; Castle braced to move, but he wasn't expecting what came next. The man stepped towards him, and with his heel pointing at Castle's ankle, the knife shot out of the bottom-back of his boot. It didn't hit Castle's ankle directly, but the slash of the blade was sharp and drew its own blood. Castle yelled out in pain as he quickly hopped away from the man.

Ready to end the fight, Castle finally drew his sidearm. His opponent had the same thought and drew at the same moment. The two stared fiercely at one another. Finally, the other man backed away towards the door as a siren approached. He fired a single shot at Castle, who in anticipation was already diving to the floor. "Predictable," Castle uttered as he fired three shots at the man. All three struck the fleeing stranger in the back. The man fell to the ground, but caught himself with his hands and quickly resumed his escape.

Castle wasn't going to let him get away that easily.


	9. Chapter 8

Frank had trailed the mysterious man through the streets until he'd barked an order in to a radio. "I'm heading towards the corner of Edsall and Duke, pick me up!" An Escalade's lights had pulled through the light fog and swept him up. As the man with the Spanish accent climbed in, two men in militaristic armor climbed out, each carrying a submachine gun. They looked up and down the street quickly before getting back in the car. It pulled away and Castle emerged from the shadows he had been hiding in. He saw the vehicle take a right turn at the corner, and dashed back through the alley to the opposite side.

Castle spotted the vehicle coming down the street at high speed as he pulled the paper off the sticky transmitter he had readied. He hurled the transmitter, the sound of which was masked by the vehicle's roaring engine and speeding tires. Castle jogged through the streets, taking care to avoid the police who were investigating the call of a disturbance at the bar.

As he approached his vehicle, he removed his coat and looked at his arm; there was a quickly darkening bruise. Castle once again retreated from the stinging cold by sliding his arms back through the coat sleeves and raising his collar.

After removing a duffle bag from the trunk of his car, Castle returned to the front seat of his vehicle. He sighed as he opened the bag, and looked through some equipment. He spotted the blackberry he was looking for, and powering it on, he attached a bluetooth earpiece to his ear. He pressed several buttons on the PDA before a woman's automated voice spoke emotionlessly to him. "Voice commands activated"

"Record. WJ zero three zero two." Meanwhile, back in his safehouse, a computer monitor powered on and a sound recording program appeared, complete with an analog sound display. It began to dance as Castle spoke.

"Punisher War Journal, Mark IV, March 2nd. It's the early hours of the morning. While scouting the bar, my cover was blown. I suspect they knew who they were looking for... after a confrontation with some kind of military-styled assassin, I saw the trap in hindsight. He escaped, but with one of the last transmitters left over from the old days, I intend to track down the SUV my attacker escaped in. The war is heating up again, and the enemy appears more heavy handed than ever. The men who helped my attacker escape were well armed, and my fear is that a paramilitary organization is operating within the city limits."

Castle opened the blackberry's GPS software, and quickly located the direction of the transmitter. "It's east of here, close to the river. End record." He pocketed his earpiece and drove in the direction of the transmission.


	10. Chapter 9

In Castle's safehouse, the recording ended; the program automatically saved and closed the file. Glass crunched over the sound of footsteps. The stars, unusually visible, were shining through the broken window. Cold air filled the room. A darkened figure slowly strode through, and their warm breath floated through the chilled space. They placed their gloved hand on the mouse, and clicked open the recording. "Still just blindly messing with the dead engineer's tech," a distinct male voice stated outloud. "When you gonna learn, Castle?" 

Frank's recording played back several times, looped, as the man leaned on Castle's desk with his elbow, holding up his chin with his closed fist. "You're on to some big game, aren't you?" The man stood up after closing the program once again. He crouched down. He unzipped his camouflage jacket, and reaching in to its concealed pocket, pulled out two glove warmers before ripping their covers off and sliding them in to his gloves. He adjusted his baseball cap before standing.

The man began to explore the safehouse. He looked carefully around corners and ceilings for explosives and other traps. He passed dozens of locked cabinets and chests, already aware of the lethal armaments contained within. He knew where he was going as he unlocked and opened a door and down the two steps beyond it. "Relatively remote neighborhood... an interior suitable for a workshop... hell, the garage is just a nice bonus."

He could see the light chord dangling in the middle of the room. He began to reach for it, but quickly pulled his hand back. "Yow... you almost got me there, I bet." Instead, the man reached in to his pocket and withdrew a flashlight. "Only going to bill you for the trip wire, sir... the explosives on the garage door are free." He flipped the flashlight on, and at that very moment he noticed the mounted security camera. It made a noise as it came to life. "Shit!" He drew his .44 as quickly as he could and shot the camera, but he knew he was too late. He shot out one of the windows on the garage door and leaping to it, struggled to squeeze through.

Castle's blackberry beeped; a new e-mail message. As he waited in his car at a light, he turned on the device's screen and read the message's subject: ALERT 15. "The garage camera," Castle said outloud. "Damn... safehouse is compromised." An image was attached. Castle saw the man reaching for his sidearm as a flashlight dropped towards the ground. Didn't look like a cop. "No use for it now." He replied to the message, typing only a subject: TRIGGER 15.

The side of the house exploded as the garage's bomb armed. The flames rose high in to the air as debris fell around the ruined building. The intruder laid still in the dirt nearby. He groaned as he sat up. "Ironic... I thought it was me got hired to blow up your house, back in the day. Guess turnabout is fair play." A police car pulled up, its lights flashing. The cop inside stepped out, and ran around the back of the car as the intruder got to his feet.

"Sir, was there anybody else inside?" The cop's eyes got wider as he stepped towards the man, his scarred and manipulated face illuminated by the blaze. "Your face... are you hurt?"

"Yeah," replied the man as he raised his .44 and shot the officer through the forehead, killing him instantly. "But it didn't happen tonight." He put away his weapon and ran from the scene.


	11. Chapter 10

The escalade pulled in to the loading bay of the facility. Behind it, the large metal garage doors were closed. A determined looking Frank Castle was watching from across the river, standing outside of his sedan with a pair of binoculars. Castle began to annotate from his earpiece to his blackberry.

"Punisher War Journal, Mark IV, March 2nd continued. I'm forced to record directly to my portable device now that my computer at home was destroyed. I was forced to detonate an explosive in an attempt to defeat an intruder... but that situation is momentarily secondary. I've arrived at an obvious base of operations for the man I encountered in the bar who talked about buying guns. I'm not armed heavily enough for a full assault, but some recon will definitely prove useful. This off-shoot of the east river is going to force me to find an alternative route, as I'm sure the main road is being watched."

Castle pocketed his ear piece and blackberry. He stayed as low as he could in his upright stance, and moved quickly along the stream until he found a shallow area, mostly filled with pebbles and large stones. His hands were empty, but his pistol and a knife were both easily accessible. He could see large grass clippings all along the area, suggesting that the grass had been tall but was cut to prevent intruders such as himself from hiding. That meant they had a good position to watch from. He felt assured, however, that he could crawl along the ground as the area was devoid of light.

Castle raised his binoculars and checked the roof of the building. At that moment, a service door opened and an armed guard dressed for the cold weather walked out on to the roof. His assault rifle was partially tucked under his coat, which would help in case any satellites were focused on the building, but even short patrols in the open with visible weaponry was still a very brazen tactic. Whoever was inside was confident. Castle decided on entering through the roof... a reasonable task, considering the ladders on the sides of the building.

Castle raised to a crouched stance and quickly closed the distance between himself and the facility. Construction vehicles filled the area... somebody was providing this front for the men inside. But they would have to wait for now. Castle began climbing a ladder as quietly as he could. The ground moved farther and farther away... ten feet, twenty feet, and at the top, an estimate of 100 feet was reasonable. He heard the rooftop door close, and confirmed with his eyes that the roof was empty.

Frank quietly moved to the door. His instinct was to wait... wait an hour or more for a sentry to return. He wasn't eager to stay in the cold though, as the wind and temperature at this height were stinging his face. Castle slowly opened the door and crept through, gently closing it behind himself. He could see a bunk through an opening, and assumed that there were more beds in that area. The cheap kind. People were sleeping here, but the beds probably hadn't been there long.

Castle heard footsteps in the otherwise quiet area; the only other noise was a single voice... a spanish accent? He moved against the wall as the patrolling guard he'd seen walked past him. Castle let him go for the time being, and waited until he couldn't hear the steps anymore. He hadn't wanted to let the man go... but this was war, and even if his blood had started to simmer while allowing an evildoer to continue breathing, he had to fight his battles intelligently.

Castle didn't have to go far to listen to the voice that was speaking. He made a gamble, and indeed, the bunk rooms were empty. He crossed through them to a set of stairs that led down. He paused on the stairs, his view complete. The room was large, filled with jeeps, SUVs, and even a vehicle with treads on it. Castle whispered to himself, "What the hell are you guys doing with a combat vehicle?" Roughly fifty men were gathered, some sitting in chairs, some standing, around the Spaniard who Frank had confronted only forty minutes ago. Castle stayed as still as possible and heard the final terrifying words of the speech.

"I will be leading the charge to battle tonight... we may have sprung our plan a little early, but with outsiders likely becoming curious, we have no time to waste. Once we've eroded the ability of the police to communicate, their men will hang up their hats with the excuse that they no longer have orders. The national guard and other military groups will be called in... but by then, they will be too late to have stopped us.

"As we have done in many other cities across the globe, areas that we now control with our influence and steadfast ability to remove detractors... New York will soon follow. The city will serve US!"

The men cheered with vigor as they jumped out of their seats, and began loading up the vehicles. Castle felt helpless to stop them. Though he didn't believe they could resist the military, and that their plans were far too grandiose to be lasting or rational, he knew that innocents would be caught in the crossfire. He had to warn somebody. Castle moved back up the stairs, and caught a glimpse of the patrolling guard passing by the doorway at the opposite end of the bunkroom. Castle boldly walked across it, and approached the guard from behind as he began to turn. "Hey," Castle said outloud. The guard raised his weapon, but it was too late. Castle yanked the gun out of his hands.

"Oh, shit!" the guard exclaimed. Frank delivered a violent rifle butt to the man's gut, and another to the back of his head when he doubled over.

"We're going to have a talk on the roof."

The guard was barely concious as Castle dragged him outside... outside where he could get good cellular reception. He dialed a number in to his blackberry as he placed his bluetooth earpiece back in his ear. The phone picked up. "...Hello? It's the middle of the night, who the hell is this?"

Gentle lady, Castle thought. "Put on your husband. He'll know who this is." A man took the phone.

"Who is this?"

"Is this Chief Redding?"

"Damn right. Who's disturbing my family's peace?"

"Frank Castle." Castle could hear Redding's heart almost stop.

"How did you get this number?"

"Stupid question."

"What do you want?"

Castle scowled as the facility's garage doors opened, and vehicles peeled out. The treaded vehicle was indeed a tank, as he had feared. "You've got a combat vehicle heading in to your city, from the east river. The Sterling Construction company's been fronting for some paramilitary group."

"Are you kidding?"

"No."

"Look, Castle, we're not falling in to your traps... whatever reason you want us out in the streets in force, we're not biting. You probably bit off more than you could chew from some pissed off goombas and could use a diversion to help you out... we'll wait for a call from an honest citizen."

Castle hung up the phone. He had wanted to tell Chief Redding he was making a mistake, but he knew it wouldn't do him any good. His reputation as a killer had indeed preceeded him, and without warning, the innocent people of New York city were going to suffer.

He had to find out where they were going... maybe somebody on site would listen to him. The now disarmed guard was gaining conciousness, and on a rooftop of that height, Castle knew how to make somebody talk.


	12. Chapter 11

"His name's Ricardo Moreno," the guard shrieked, dangling over the edge of the facility's rooftop with only the Punisher's hands keeping him from plummeting to certain death. "All I know is that he's former Spanish military… he's a mercenary now, he hired a bunch of freelance contractors with expertise in staging coups."

Castle couldn't believe his ears. "He's setting up a coup in New York city I gathered… what the hell makes him think he'll succeed?"

"The firepower he has his hands on is incredible. Rocket propelled grenades, anti-air missile launchers, troop carriers, high-caliber machine guns… the only way they'll be able to dig him out once he takes power is with a missile, and there's no way they'll use any kind of sea or air support on an American city." Castle hauled the guard up to roof level again and hurled him against the access door. The guard trembled in place as he waited for the worst. "Please, don't kill me."

Castle wished he had his bowie knife still, something he'd have to talk to Moreno about when he caught up to him… preferably with his .45 jammed in the Spanish mercenary's mouth. He instead had to rely on his pocket knife, which he pulled from his coat and held to the guard's throat. Were he a smaller man, Castle may not be feared by the guard brandishing such a tiny knife, but the Punisher's reputation was enough to keep him under control. "How'd he get the firepower and the vehicles here?"

The guard knew he'd said too much already. "I'm not stupid… I know you're going to kill me. So get it over with, I'm done talking." Castle didn't fall for the bluff as the guard was still shaking. He didn't waste any time tossing the man to the ground and, using his weight, held the man down and went to work with the knife. The man screamed as his ear was sliced roughly at the base and removed for him to see.

Castle stood, and tossed the ear off the roof. "Tell me how they did it."

The guard, holding his wound and thoroughly terrorized, spat out what he could. "A construction company… they're based in Europe… Moreno has a contact… high enough up to smuggle in the equipment with one of their regular shipments." Castle had heard what he'd wanted. The story fit what he already knew.

"Get up. Walk to the edge of the roof or I'll kill you now." The guard complied, and turned to face Castle. "Radio Moreno. Tell him to look at the roof." Castle tossed the guard the radio he had confiscated from him.

"Moreno, you copy?"

A voice crackled back. "Go ahead."

Castle saw Moreno's escalade in the distance. "Tell him I'm here."

"Moreno! It's Lewis… the Punisher is here! On the roof!" The escalade screeched to a halt, and Moreno stepped out of the vehicle, zooming in on the roof with a pair of binoculars. He saw the guard, and Castle behind him. Castle raised his .45 and shot his hostage through the back of the head. Blood sprayed as the guard's body went limp, tumbling off the roof. One of Moreno's bodyguards spoke up.

"Should we go back sir? Take him out?"

"No. He will escape or use the base against us before we can reach him. Proceed with the plan, we must draw him to our position." Moreno climbed back in his vehicle, disturbed that he had not eluded Frank Castle. "Nothing must slow us down."


End file.
